


The Broken Phrase (The Song that was Made Whole)

by rz_jocelyn



Series: The three times that Kuroiwa Kazuma was glad that Katayama Hajime was back in his older brother’s life (and the one time that he was glad that Katayama Ryo was back in his younger brother’s) [1]
Category: Ochanomizu Rock - All Media Types
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-08
Updated: 2018-04-08
Packaged: 2019-04-20 00:43:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,483
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14249388
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rz_jocelyn/pseuds/rz_jocelyn
Summary: [Spoilers for the "Ochanomizu Rock" drama up until Episode 08. Set in Episode 08.] It was a familiar phrase; a phrase that, if Kuroiwa Kazuma were to be very honest, had the potential to be one of the better songs that Katayama Ryo could produce. But it was also a broken phrase; a phrase that was never completed.





	The Broken Phrase (The Song that was Made Whole)

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: The fascinating characters of "Ochanomizu Rock" do not belong to me, but to their creators. With that, enjoy! xD

It was a familiar phrase; Kuroiwa Kazuma couldn’t really call it a melody when Katayama Ryo only ever repeated the same few chords, sometimes plucking, sometimes strumming. It was an uncompleted song of Ryo-san’s, Kazuma had learnt, not one of THE CROW’s, but a song that Ryo-san was perhaps more familiar with than any of the songs he had performed onstage, if the way he played the phrase was anything to go by, his eyes unseeing and faraway even as his fingers idly brought the chords to life. 

Sometimes, Ryo-san would meander on, the melody changing as he moved on to other songs – songs from his past, songs that they had heard around them, songs that they had heard from The DIE is CAST when Ryo-san was pondering his band – but no matter what melody he called forth in his musings, Ryo-san always began with that phrase. 

Kazuma hated that phrase. 

It was a good phrase – if Kazuma were to be very honest, it had the potential to become one of the better songs that Ryo-san would have produced – but the thought would be quashed every time he happened to catch Ryo-san as he was playing it. Drowning in emotions was a figurative description, but Kazuma was sure that if it had been literal, he would’ve suffocated on the pain and bitterness that stained Ryo-san’s usually calm and professional countenance. It was a reminder that no matter how hard Kazuma tried to dig into Ryo-san’s past, there was only so much he could find out; a reminder that there was a part in his life that Ryo-san would always keep locked away – buried, but never forgotten – that Kazuma could never touch. 

A reminder that there was a part of Ryo-san that, in spite of all his resources and connections, Kazuma would never be able to help his president, his friend, with, and maybe, just maybe, that was why Kazuma felt as bitter about it as Ryo-san seemed to feel. 

Kazuma hated feeling helpless. 

The waiting was getting to him. When Kazuma had found out what Aramaki had done to Hajime-kun, his president’s estranged younger brother, he had been furious. Most of him still felt cold and unforgiving when it came to the younger Katayama – because every time Ryo-san had spoken to his brother, there was always a stone-cold look of ruthlessness in his eyes, weakened only by a deep hurt – but a part of him couldn’t help but warm up to the younger boy, who was a dazzling ball of light and, as clichéd as it sounded, was as magnetic as the sun, even if Hajime-kun was a lot kinder and more gentle. In Hajime-kun, Kazuma could see the echoes of how the Katayama brothers would’ve been as children; Ryo-san as the steady, reliable older brother, the protective and ever watchful moon to Hajime-kun’s impetuous blazing unrestrained sun. 

Oh, it wasn’t to say that Ryo-san was always cautious, sensible and level-headed – there had been more than one occasion where Kazuma had been in the position of playing clean-up – but even from the little that he had glimpsed of Hajime-kun, Kazuma suspected that Hajime-kun would’ve been Ryo-san’s anchor. If there was even the smallest chance that his actions would cause his younger brother trouble or grief, Ryo-san would’ve reigned himself in faster than KAZUYA-kun could set ARASHI-kun off. 

Even now, for all that Ryo-san said that he hated his brother and that he wanted Hajime-kun out of his life, despite the mask of professionalism, Kazuma prided on himself on knowing his president’s mood better than most; he could see the worry and fear that thrummed through Ryo-san’s nerves in the way that the older Katayama’s eyes were hard as flint and in the way that the president crossed his arms a little too tightly, his fingers tapping in an erratic rhythm, suggesting that Ryo-san desperately wanted his guitar, which was his usual method of coping with his tumultuous emotions. 

And, though Hajime-kun was more forgiving than the imagery counterpart that Kazuma had designated for him, Ryo-san more than made up for what his brother lacked, which was why Kazuma wasn’t all that surprised when Ryo-san assigned him the task of digging into Aramaki’s past, a task which Kazuma set himself to with relish. 

Nobody messed with Katayama Ryo, not if Kazuma could help it. 

Kazuma returned to the scene just in time to catch Hajime-kun’s dramatic entrance, and despite the seriousness of the situation, Kazuma was highly amused at how Hajime-kun had unwittingly captured the spotlight with him, quite literally, crashing the event. Even as Kazuma approached Ryo-san to recount to his president what he had found, the secretary noted how Ryo-san’s arms had loosened – still crossed, but not in a hold that was gripping and tight – and the way his eyes had softened even as Ryo-san watched his younger brother sweep the members of DIC into his pace, reuniting with his own band members who welcomed Hajime-kun with blinding smiles that were brighter than the flashing lights around them.

The secretary suspected that the menacing darkness in his eyes, the only sign of Kazuma’s tightly controlled unbridled fury, rivalled the brightness onstage that distracted everyone from the backstage confrontation between him and Aramaki as he cornered his prey. A part of Kazuma did sympathise with the other man, whose very real dreams had been dashed, but Aramaki had chosen the wrong target, and Kazuma couldn’t help the sadistic glee that welled up within him as the event producer’s arrogance crumbled before his very eyes. 

Kazuma would never forgive anyone who tried to hurt Ryo-san. 

And, surprisingly, Kazuma was beginning to realise that his protectiveness had extended to include Hajime-kun too. The grazes on the younger Katayama’s face were a stark painful red and black-blue against the fairness of his skin – Kazuma suspected that the unnatural paleness of Hajime-kun’s face was also due, in no small part, to the effects of him pushing himself to stand on the stage and perform in spite of his injuries – and he made a note to ensure that Hajime-kun would be properly checked out in the hospital, bill fully paid for by Crimson Sky Record – because Aramaki’s target had been their agency – which he was sure Ryo-san would agree to even if Hajime-kun protested.

Then, he froze, all his planning coming to a grinding halt as the strains of a familiar phrase reached his ears. It was the phrase that Kazuma had caught Ryo-san playing on his guitar, the phrase Kazuma hated, the uncompleted song. 

The song that Hajime-kun now dedicated to his older brother; a song he called “TRIPLET”. 

A song that Hajime-kun had, apparently, completed.

Kazuma had only ever heard the phrase as it was played by Ryo-san; a phrase he associated with bitterness, a phrase he associated with pain. 

The incomplete phrase that was now a completed melody; a song sung by Hajime-kun that told of an unforgiving past and a shared pain, an unspoken grief and a desperate longing. 

And, in place of the bitterness. 

There was hope. 

Aching and fragile, flickering and uncertain. 

But undeniably there. 

Ryo-san had never been forthcoming about what happened between him and Hajime-kun that had destroyed their relationship, but Kazuma knew that no matter how much blood the shards had drawn, Ryo-san could never bring himself to fully let go of the broken fragments of their bond. This was the part of Ryo-san that Kazuma could never touch, could never reach out to, to support, to soothe; Ryo-san’s bitterness, indelible and all-consuming, had been a battle that Kazuma could never fight, a battle that he had never even been given the chance to fight. 

That bitterness was gone.

And, it was then that Kazuma knew.

As Ryo-san declined the invitation to join The DIE is CAST for the event after party, briskly assigning Kazuma to ensure that the euphoric members of the newly named Champion of BUZZ ROCK FUTURE didn’t go overboard with their celebrations, Kazuma could see the echoes of a person who was the same Katayama Ryo he knew and yet so different; a person who was a stranger to Kazuma, but who, he undoubtedly knew, was no stranger to Hajime-kun. 

Kazuma was right; the phrase, when completed, had the potential to be one of the better songs that Ryo-san would produce. 

But he was also wrong.

Because, on his own, Ryo-san only had that phrase, the one that Kazuma was familiar with, incomplete – like Ryo-san’s heart – and broken – like the brothers’ bond.

And it was Katayama Hajime, Hajime-kun, Ryo-san’s precious baby brother, who was the only one who could have taken that broken phrase – who could heal that part of Ryo-san that Kazuma could never touch, who could win the battle that Kazuma had never even had the chance to fight – and create that song.

A melody that was now complete. 

And, finally, whole.

 

~ OWARI ~


End file.
